


Under the Twisted Weirwood Tree

by Frenchcroatiansquid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Purge (Movies), The Purge (TV)
Genre: Darkfic, F/M, Gregor is his own warning, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Orwell is his own warning, Purge AU, Ramsay is His Own Warning, The Purge is its own warning, This fic is basically paced like the movie Titanic (1997), White collar crime is a thing on Purge Night in Westeros, consider yourself warned, semi modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchcroatiansquid/pseuds/Frenchcroatiansquid
Summary: It's Purge Night in Westeros. As it so happens, it's also Roose Bolton's turn to host the annual New Conquerors fundraiser. Sansa thinks that's anexcellentreason to skip the festivities. Tywin thinks not showing up would be seen as a sign of weakness. What could possibly go wrong?Westerosi Purge AU with some Orwell thrown into the mix for good measure





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read at your own risk

“Welcome,” said the Lord of the Dreadfort in that soft voice of his that made Sansa's skin crawl. He was wearing a long cape of dusky pink velvet, one pale hand protruding from underneath the soft-looking fabric, vaguely pointing in the direction of the large X-ray machine in the entrance hall. “Please forgive the formalities.”

Tywin shucked off his coat and handed his custom made .44 to the valet before proceeding through security.

A hand lightly tapped Sansa's shoulder when she tried to follow. She had to force herself to look up and into the two chips of ice that were Roose Bolton's eyes. “I am not armed.” Her voice was firm and steady yet polite, noncommital, not betraying any political leanings. That, Tywin had explained, was important. _Don't raise your voice. Don't argue with them. Never say what you think._

The valet cleared his throat. “We need your mobile phone, my lady. Or any other transmitting devices.”

“Oh...” Sansa reached into her purse. “Right.” Networks were down on Purge Night, but ever since the Faceless Men had hacked a cell tower three years ago, restoring communication, the New Conquerors made an effort to collect all phones at the door.

Her legs felt like pudding as she stepped through the metal detector. All eyes seemed to be on her, watching her closely, waiting for her to make a mistake. But when she looked back, the valet was processing Gregor Clegane and Roose was greeting the Tyrells.

Tywin was waiting for her by the stairs, holding out his arm, like an olive branch. “Shall we?”

They'd argued about coming, their first _real_ argument since they'd said their vows, and the words still hung between them.

“I thought you would be pleased with the location,” Tywin had told her in that icy tone of voice he usually reserved for others. “The Dreadfort offers excellent security.”

That much was true: the heart of the Bolton mansion was a keep inside a keep; locked down, it turned into a massive, windowless cube of concrete and steel that could withstand a small nuclear attack. Of course, Sansa thought, such features could easily turn into a liability when you were trying to get _out_.

“You know I don't like these Party functions,” she had tried again. “I like them no better when the Boltons play masters of ceremonies.”

“Why?” The look Tywin had given her was almost curious, as if he genuinely did not understand. “Would you rather host yourself?”

That had ended the discussion. It would have been the Lannisters' turn to organize the annual New Conquerors fundraiser, Tyrion had told her later, and refusing had cost his father a substantial amount of political capital. More importantly, it had cost him an opportunity to shine. “Take it as his way of showing that he loves you,” Tyrion had said. “It's more than he ever did for any of his children.”

No matter how much Tywin loved her though, she could never make him understand how much she hated Purge Night.

Sansa took a step forward, linking her arm in his. There was no time to get back to the safety of their home; ready or not, she was stuck at the Dreadfort.

She had only been here once, many years ago, for Domeric's fourteenth nameday, but she remembered the stairway that led them down into the subterranean maze of tunnels they had to cross to reach the Keep. The thick stone walls on both sides were decorated with the skulls of every person the Boltons had purged over the centuries, white bone and dark empty eye sockets staring down on them. “Don't worry,” Domeric had reassured her. “They're just for show, to demonstrate our loyalty to the New Conquerors. They all died a long time ago.” That seemed plausible enough: Roose was known to dispose of his victims discretely, while Ramsay's victims were too numerous to display, their bodies hidden away in the deepest vaults of the Dreadfort, far from the prying eyes of any visitor.

Of course, Domeric was among them now.

Sansa tried to push the thought from her head, walking faster to keep up with Tywin. Ser Gregor's heavy boots were clanking on the stone floor behind them. The Mountain's presence was supposed to make her feel safe. _If only it was Sandor in his place_. But Tywin had insisted the Hound stay outside with the other bodyguards and help watch the wall that surrounded the Bolton estate. _A gesture of courtesy_ , Sansa knew. To her husband, the fundraiser was just another work night, an event he was obliged to attend as a senior Party member, perhaps an opportunity to strike a deal. Most certainly, it was nothing to worry about.

The narrow tunnel widened until it spilled into a hall from which winding stairs led back up into a large rotunda. Three stories tall and lined with rows of balconies, the Bolton's Great Hall had the air of a theater. There were no windows, but real candles burned in the chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, basking the room in soft light.

The High Septon came up to greet them, wishing them a blessed Night of the Stranger, as the Faith liked to call the holiday. Tywin bent down, briefly touching his lips to the black heptagon on his ring. Other men stopped to greet them, Mace Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne, Randyll Tarly, Gawen Westerling. Each time, Sansa smiled while Tywin made polite conversation before excusing himself and dragging Sansa deeper into the crowd.

She was looking around, trying to spot a familiar face, someone she might be able to _talk_ to. Of course, none of her family were here; the Starks weren't Party people. Theon was standing in a corner, looking like a shadow of himself, his face ashen, his hair white and brittle. He was staring at Sansa, but when she lifted her hand to wave at him, he quickly turned his head.

The Baratheons were there, the Martells, the Hightowers, the Freys, the Spicers, the Yronwoods and countless others: the entire Party had come. Sansa found the New Conquerors insufferable on any day of the year: their carefully rehearsed, threatening smiles, their Party-speak, their hypocrisy. But this was the night they openly celebrated their darkest side. Sansa was scared of being locked into the Dreadfort with them, of witnessing their cruelty first hand.

Most of all, she was scared of what Tywin would do. Her husband despised the spontaneous outbursts of violence, the savages on the streets going on a rampage. But like all Party members, he supported the Purge. _It's smart. It keeps us in power._ She knew he had killed people before – he'd been honest when she'd asked him.“I use this night to do the things that need to be done, _when_ they have to be done,” he had said. She'd married him knowing all this. But knowing and _seeing_ were two different things.

 _He won't_ , she told herself. _Not this year._


	2. Chapter 2

“My lords, my ladies.” Even through a microphone, Lord Roose's voice made Sansa shiver. He was standing on a platform in the middle of the rotunda, waiting until the crowd had fallen silent. “Why do we come together? What is the essence of Purge Night?”

They were on the upper balcony, Tywin in his dark crimson tail coat and Sansa in her long golden dress, observing the spectacle like a king and his queen. Behind them, waiters were flying by, offering wine, and champagne, and small vials filled with a dark viscous liquid that looked like blood. _Don't touch that_ , Tywin had told her.

He must have chosen this spot for a reason, Sansa thought. _Everything_ he did was for a reason, though half of the time, she had no idea why. All she could do was trust him. She took a step closer towards him, resting her arm on the balustrade. As if on cue, Tywin placed his hand on hers, just like she'd hoped he would. Sansa straightened her shoulders. Here they were, for all the Party to see. _It's official now._ The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Man may be the noblest of all creatures,” Roose continued below, “but ultimately, he is still a beast. _We_ are beasts. History teaches us the good we can achieve if we embrace our nature instead of fighting it.”

It wasn't the first time Sansa asked herself if he actually believed the Party line. Roose Bolton didn't look like he a man who believed in _anything_. But perhaps that didn't matter. When everyone could be made to say one thing over and over again, eventually it became irrelevant whether they believed it or not: the New Conquerors' words were like worms burrowing into peoples' brains, taking up more and more space until they were all that was left and the line that had once separated them from the truth had disappeared.

“The Rebellion showed us who we truly are,” Roose intoned. “It was violence that freed us from tyranny and brought us a new order.”

There were claps and cheers. Sansa quickly glanced at Tywin. He looked like a statue of himself, motionless.

She hadn't been born when the New Conquerors took power. Her parents never spoke of those years, the things they had seen. The things they had _done._ Her text books in school praised the Party for its wisdom but provided little detail of what had actually happened. Ironically, it was Tywin who had told her the truth.

For months after the Rebellion, armies of mercenaries had roamed the realm, hunting down every man, woman and child of Valyrian descent. Those who were not killed on the spot were tortured to death in makeshift prisons. Once they had rounded up every last silver-haired person, the armies had turned on each other. It had taken the New Conquerors over a year to restore order. “Say what you want,” her husband had told her. “People _are_ violent. I've seen it. Any man who thinks he can change human nature is a fool.”

 _But we_ can _control the violence_. Those were the Party's words, burned into her brain. In truth, the first Purge had been little more than a failed coup by a handful of disgruntled warlords, violent but brief. The New Conquerors had restored order before the morning and had somehow managed to twist their temporary loss of control over the capital into a myth of intentional bloodshed for the greater good. Tywin had told her that, too.

“It is violence that _keeps_ the order.” Lord Roose was nearing the end of his speech, raising his glass. “Society has to be purged of its bad blood so that we can have peace. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That is why we celebrate. That is the essence of Purge Night.”

The applause felt like thunder rolling through the Great Hall. By the time it subsided, the alarm had started blaring.

“I hate that sound.” The noise drowned out her words, but Tywin must have heard her anyway. Or perhaps he could guess her thoughts.

“None of these people would dare to hurt you,” he said.

 _Purge inside the Party, and the Party will purge you_. That was the New Conqueror's unwritten rule. Sansa had never joined the Party herself, but Tywin had assured her that if _he_ couldn't protect her, no slip of paper would.

Of course, her family claimed the rules were interpreted quite flexibly. Whether one was killed or merely suspended from a few months was decided on a case by case basis, weighing the donations of the murderer against those of the murdered. _Perhaps_ , Sansa thought, _that's why Tywin feels so secure._ There simply was no-one who could outspend him.

He turned around to face her. “I know you'd rather be home, but these functions serve a purpose.”

“Right,” said Sansa. “To cleanse ourselves.”

“Yes, yes.” For all his loyalty to the Party, Tywin could be refreshingly dismissive of its core messages when he chose to. “What else?”

“To raise money for the New Conquerors,” Sansa offered. There certainly was enough money in the room to keep them going for another century or two.

“That's closer. But they could do that on any other night.” Tywin paused. “What do you think Roose would be doing if he wasn't forced to entertain us? Or I, if I wasn't here for that matter?”

 _Murdering your partners_ , Sansa thought, instantly feeling guilty. _That was a long time ago._ “Sleep?”

Tywin eyed her with a vague sense of amusement. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps not. Think about it.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I have to take care of something. Gregor will stay with you. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell him.”

That was the _last_ thing Sansa planned to do, but she nodded like she always did. “I'll be fine.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Jeyne Poole sat at a bar in one of the many small alcoves, her back to the wall, the drink in front of her untouched.

Sansa wasn't sure she'd be able to talk to her, but Jeyne was the only person in the room who didn't seem _excited_ to be here, so she eased herself into the narrow space between the bench and the wall, giving the bartender a quick nod. “One Arbor Red if it please you.” She wasn't going to drink, not here, not tonight, but she needed a cup in her hands, something to hold on to.

Jeyne looked up. Sansa couldn't tell from her face if she had recognized her or not. There was no expression in her eyes at all. “Hi,” she said, trying to smile.

They'd been friends once, _good_ friends even. It wasn't that they'd fought. Jeyne had simply snapped one day. There were rumors, of course, of the unspeakable things Ramsay had done to her. The truth was, _everybody_ in the Seven Kingdoms knew. But Jeyne had refused to take the Boltons to court. Her father had sent her to the Citadel; they'd locked her up for months, and by the time she came back, her personality had withdrawn to a place where no one could reach her.

Jeyne was twisting her glass in her hand. “I thought you didn't like the Purge,” she said. “So why are you here?”

“Tywin has to attend this thing. I- I think. He wanted me to come.” Sansa glanced over her shoulder. Gregor was standing by the tall arched door that led back into the Great Hall, watching her. _Out of earshot._ Tywin must have instructed him to give her some privacy. Still, he was like a shadow following her everywhere, impossible to shake off.

Jeyne either hadn't noticed the Mountain or didn't care. “So you're going to kill someone,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

Sansa felt her throat tighten. “No! No, I won't!”

Jeyne got up. It was only when Sansa could see her full body that she noticed how skinny her friend had become, her hips and collar bones clearly visible under the soft white fabric of her dress. “Then perhaps you shouldn't be here.”

 _I'm not going to kill anyone_ , Sansa wanted to tell her. But Jeyne had slipped away before she could open her mouth.

“Here you go.” The bartender placed a glass of red wine in front of her.

Sansa pushed it aside. “I have to go. I'm sorry.”

But when she stood up, she was staring into a pair of angry green eyes.  _Please, no._

“Hello little dove. What is it? Feeling unwell tonight?”

 _Cersei can't harm me_ , Sansa told herself. _We're family._ “It's Purge Night,” she said, sitting back down, trying to look calm. “I'm at the Dreadfort. How do you think I feel?”

“ _Every_ night is Purge Night at the Dreadfort.” Cersei grabbed Jeyne's still full cup and took a long sip. “The Bolton bastard kills and maims all year. Didn't you know?”

 _Of course I know._ Sansa couldn't quite tell if Cersei was repulsed by Ramsay's inability to control his urges like the laws of civilized society demanded or if she admired him for his bold disregard of the rules. It was an open secret. Ramsay had grown quite skilled at choosing his victims, and when he misstepped, Roose was there to quietly make amends.

“Have you ever killed someone, little dove?”

Sansa shook her head. What was the point in lying? Cersei knew the answer already.

The Queen laughed. “This will be a night to remember then. I'll always remember my first kill. Father wanted Jaime to do it, but he couldn't, so I did what had to be done.” She finished the glass and waved at the bartender to refill it. “We were eight, Jaime and I.”

“Eight?” _She's lying_ , Sansa tried to tell herself. _No, that's the truth and you know it_ , the voice at the back of her head said.

Cersei shrugged. “Don't pretend to be so shocked. Father would have had us kill much sooner if Mother hadn't stopped him. And he was right. You see, in this world, you're either predator or prey. Best to teach your children early to distinguish the two and make sure they're on the right side.”

 _Myrcella is sixteen_ , Sansa wanted to say. _And Tommen fifteen. Would you ask them to kill?_ But the words got stuck in her throat.

Cersei leaned closer, close enough that Sansa could smell the wine on her breath. Wine, and something else. “Why do you think people hate Father so much?”

Sansa tried to pull away. “You're drunk.”

“Oh, don't be like that. Of course I'm drunk, but you _know_ they hate him. They hate him because he broke the rules and placed himself above them, showed them they, too, can be killed. You see, the prey inside the Party likes to believe they are safe, protected by their membership card. Father showed them they have no more than a paper shield.”

Sansa knew all the stories. Tywin had gone after his father's business associate. The man had been hiding in his safe room with his family, so Tywin had barricaded the door from the outside and flooded the room through the ventilation shafts. It wasn't the last time Tywin had purged inside the Party. That, too, was an open secret.

“You're right,” she said. “He killed the rich instead of the poor. Party members, not poor sods on the street. The New Conquerors like to pretend the Purge is the great equalizer. That all Westerosis can become predators or prey if they make that choice. Only the truth is, the New Conquerors are untouchable.”

Cersei stared at her as if trying to wrap her mind around the words that had just come out of Sansa's mouth. Or rather that they had come out of _Sansa's_ mouth.  “Yes.” She finished her drink in one go. “And no. You see, secretly, they agree with him. They _know_ that some of the New Conquerors are sheep that deserve to be slaughtered. Only now, he married _you._ A lion married to a pretty little dove, so innocent, so gentle. Tell me, what am I to make of that? Do you really feel no rage at all?”

 _More than you can imagine_ , Sansa thought. “I am a woman. Does that answer your question?” She tried to get up, but Cersei pulled her back.

There was a golden spark in the Queen's eyes, a reflection from the candle on the table. “Come with me, Sansa. Ramsay and his men are killing people in the basement. _Real_ killings. People they kidnapped, not people who get paid to die. _Powerful_ people. Business people who crossed the New Conquerors. Party members that got expelled. Let's join them. I'm too old to be satisfied by a ritual killing. And _you_ deserve better for your first purge than a sheep willing to lie down under his butcher's knife.”

Sansa's face was blank. _There won't be a first purge for me_ , she wanted to say.

But Cersei had started talking herself into a rage. “Oh, gather around your poor victim, stab him a few times and feel glorious about yourself. Paying a stranger so you can kill the poor soul? What good does that do? How will that soothe my anger? I need something real.” She paused, smiling. “I've heard rumors they're going after Robert tonight. Kill the King, they whispered.” Cersei raised her empty glass. “Well, cheers to that!”

“They won't,” Sansa said with certainty. Like Queen, the title of King was at best ceremonial, but the Baratheons were a powerful family; not even Ramsay would dare to attack one of them.

Cersei waved her hand dismissively. “Of course they won't. They're cowards, all of them. I'm going to have to stick a knife in my husband's fat belly my damn self.”

Sansa got up. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to go.”

“Predator or prey, little dove!” Cersei called after her. “Mark my words! Predator or prey!”

 


	4. Chapter 4

A quartet was playing in the centre of the Great Hall, but the buzz of the crowd drowned out the music. Sansa walked briskly and with purpose: it was important to always look like you knew where you were going, even when you had no idea. Some craned their necks as she walked past to catch a glimpse of Lord Tywin's young new bride; most were too caught up in their conversations to notice her.

Outside the Great Hall, people were pouring up the stairs, talking, laughing, a fine mist of blood covering their hair and their faces - and the clothes of the more careless ones. _You’ll only wear your Purge Night outfit once if you're doing it right._

Robert Baratheon was speaking with Wyman Manderly and Smalljon Umber, a mug of ale in his hand, half of it spilled in his beard. _Kill the King_ , Sansa thought. _I should warn him_. But that was just a stupid rumor; not even Cersei believed it.

Sansa’s head was spinning. _Predator or prey_. She knew what Tywin would say. “It's just Cersei, don't mind her, she's drunk. She's always drunk on Purge Night.” _Of course she is. You made her kill when she was eight._ But there was no point in arguing with Tywin, much less in her head.

Where _was_ he? Sansa turned around, taking one last look across the Hall. But the only person she could make out in the crowd was Gregor, leaning against the wall, watching her.

More people were coming up, while others were pushing their way down. The truth was, she had no chance of finding Tywin - not when the largest part of the Dreadfort was off-limits to her.

 _Always go up_ , her husband had told her. _Keep count. Never go down unless you are certain you’re on one of the top floors_. The Keep was like an iceberg: the many subterranean levels stretched much deeper and further than the tiny part that was visible above ground. People had wandered off never to be seen again. _And others return bathed in blood._

Sansa shivered. Whatever the New Conquerors were doing down there, she wanted no part of it. She hurried up the winding stairs to the second floor and on to the third and the fourth. _Two, three, four._

It was quiet up here - only a handful of other guests talking softly in a corner, raising their heads to acknowledge Sansa's presence before returning to their conversation.

Sansa looked up. The frescos on the walls told the history of the Seven Kingdoms: the First Men, the Invasion of the Andals, the Conquest, the Rebellion, the New Conquest, and, finally, the New Order.

Right beneath the First Purge was a wooden door. Without thinking, Sansa pushed it open.

The air inside was suffused with a distinct familiar smell. Before her eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light, she knew what she had found: there was an armchair facing a fireplace and rows upon rows of books. The windows were shuttered, but velvet curtains hid the thick steel plates, making it almost possible to forget which night of the year it was. _I could lock myself in here_ , Sansa thought. _And just read._

“Ser Gregor,” she called. “I’ll be in here if anybody needs me.”

There was a grunt from the other side of the door, the clanking sound of metal against the wall.

Sansa scanned the books on the shelves. Most were titles she had never heard of, medical treatises, Party histories both official and unofficial, books in Old Valyrian and books without names.

Then, bound in bright red leather, she found a copy of _The Tale of Florian and Jonquil_. It had been her favorite story once, a tale of love against all odds, of courage and sacrifice.

But when she opened it, the pages had been torn out, a different book glued inside the spine instead. _The Last Knight of the Realm by Ser Edric Arthur Blair_ , the cover page proclaimed.

Sansa felt a bitter taste in her mouth. She knew this modern twist on Florian and Jonquil all too well. The book was banned in Westeros, but Petyr had given her a copy printed in Essos for her thirteenth birthday. “So you can learn,” he had said, “that life is not a song. Love, chivalry, sacrifice, nights in shining armor, all those things you dream of, they don't exist.” Sansa had devoured it, like any thirteen-year-old would have devoured a forbidden book, only to be left confused and disturbed.

 _The Last Knight of the Realm_ was like an angry argument with the original story, turning it onto its head. It played in the fictional empire of Seven Seas ruled by the Dragon Lords, a cult that bore an eerie resemblance to the New Conquerors (although Sansa did not notice the parallels until she re-read the book many years later). Everybody in Seven Seas understood that love wasn't real, that it was no more than a trick of the mind, a distraction that kept people from realizing their full potential. Only Florian and Jonquil were foolish enough to believe that they loved each other...

There was a soft thud.

Sansa slapped the book shut and spun around.

Roose Bolton was standing right behind her.

“I’m so sorry…” Sansa stammered. “I… I got lost...”

“No need to apologize. I did not mean to startle you. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.” There was a hint of a smile on his face, a dark kind of amusement when he noticed the book in her hands. “Ah. Tales of love and valor.” For a split second, he was looking Sansa directly in the eyes. “Or perhaps, not so much.” People said that Tywin had an intimidating gaze, but Lord Roose was something else entirely. _He must know that the Mountain is out there_ , she thought. _He must have seen him._

“I was just looking.” Sansa quickly put the book back on the shelf.

Roose picked it up again, leafing through the pages, still smiling. “Have you read _The Last Knight of the Realm_?” He asked.

“No.”

“Some people think it's better than the original.”

 _It's not_ , Sansa wanted to say. _It's just a cruel little tale made for people like you_. But she bit her lip.

The Lord of the Dreadfort studied her. “You know how it ends, don’t you?”

 _Florian betrays Jonquil_ , Sansa thought, _and Jonquil betrays Florian. And when they do, they realize they are finally healed from their affliction, their minds liberated by the Dragon Lords, freed from the illusion of love._ “No,” she said. “I told you. I haven’t read it.”

“Do when you get a chance.” Roose gave her a nod. “I’d be interested to know what you make of it.”

“It’s banned,” Sansa said. “You must know that.” _Never say what you think_. But it was too late; the words were out.

“Not for me. Or for you. You're one of us now.” He took one last look at the book before placing it back on the shelf. “We’ll be serving a Northern dinner at 11, Lady Sansa. Join us.”


	5. Chapter 5

The music had stopped, but hardly anyone seemed to notice.

The Tyrell siblings stood under a canopy of heavy black silk embroidered with threads of silver and red that formed row upon row of House Bolton’s flayed men. Petyr Baelish was with them, watching them, his eyes glued to their lips, smiling. Sansa tried to duck into the crowd, but it was too late; Margaery had spotted her.

“Sansa!” Her friend was wearing a white dress, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in perfectly defined curls, her cheeks flushed. “It’s so good to see you!” The smile on Margaery’s face was real, but her pupils were so large her eyes looked almost black.

“It’s good to see you, too.” Sansa tried her best to sound unconcerned. _Weirwood juice_ , she thought. _Or shade of the evening. Of course. That’s how people get through the night_. Part of her wished she’d taken some herself. “Have you seen Tywin?”

Margaery giggled. “Not since the opening ceremony, no.”

“No,” Loras echoed. He had the same dark eyes as his sister. “But you made _quite_ an entry.”

“Thank you. I- I guess I'll have to keep looking.” Sansa wanted to turn around and leave, but Petyr grabbed her arm.

“How _is_ Tywin? He must be making a handsome profit tonight.”

 _No more than you_ , Sansa wanted to tell him. If there was one person who always managed to enrich himself on Purge Night, it was Littlefinger. “Most of our sales are overseas,” she said. “Purge Night hardly registers in our books.” _Our sales. Our books._ The truth was Sansa didn't own a single share in any of the Lannister enterprises. But she wasn't going to distance herself from her husband, not here, not tonight, most certainly not in front of Petyr. _His eyes look perfectly normal_ , Sansa thought. _Of course they do. This night was made for people like him._

“Come,” Margaery interrupted, grabbing two heart-shaped vials from a waiter’s tray. “You look pale. Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

The liquid was a dark red color, almost purple. Sansa shook her head. “I… I don’t drink on Purge Night…”

“Oh but you _must_!” Margaery’s smile widened. She opened one of the vials and took a small sip, offering the rest to Sansa. “I insist!”

“Don’t worry,” Willas assured her. “It’s safe.”

Petyr was watching her, visibly amused. “You don’t trust her.”

Sansa could feel her ears turn red. She closed her eyes and finished the vial. It tasted like wine, only stronger, burning her throat, yet with a sweet rotten aftertaste that made her gag.

“A little something, left over from the Rebellion,” Petyr said. “The Targaryen's last revenge. Too much will turn you as mad as King Aerys the Second. Or so they say.” 

 _Dragonblood_. Sansa looked at the empty vial in her hand, struggling to hide her disgust. Its contents felt like molten metal slowly burning through the lining of her stomach, too heavy to retch up again. _It's moonshine and food color, that's all. Dragonblood is just a myth_.

Loras shrugged. “It’s a Purge Night tradition. Most of it is gone, but Lord Roose still has a few barrels stashed away.”

“I suppose it _is_ a bit of an acquired taste.” Petyr looked so pleased with himself, almost as if he himself had convinced Sansa to drink dragonblood. But then the look in his eyes changed.

Sansa felt a hand on her waste. Without looking around, she knew who it was.

“My lord.” Petyr took a small bow. “What a pleasant surprise. We were just speaking about you.”

“Were you.” Tywin said. It wasn’t a question.

There was silence from the others, the kind of silence only her husband’s icy gaze could prompt.

“You’ll excuse us,” he added after what felt like an eternity to Sansa.

“Thank you,” she said once they were out of earshot.

Tywin nodded. “You look unwell.”

“I’m just is dizzy is all. Margaery made me drink dragonblood. I… I couldn’t turn it down.”

“It’s not real,” Tywin said, calmly. “Human blood doesn’t keep that long, not even the royal kind.” He held out his arm. “Come. Let’s get some air.”

***

“We cannot guarantee your safety out there,” the guard said as he unbolted the lock.

Tywin didn't so much as look at him. “It’s safe inside the wall,” he told Sansa. 

The door fell shut with a thud behind them.

Tywin wrapped his coat around her shoulders. He lit a cigarette and passed it on to her before lighting one for himself.

Sansa took a deep drag and then another. The smoke filling her lungs cleared her head, calming her down.

“Walk with me.”

The air was crisp, leaves rustling underfoot as they crossed the lawn. All around them was quiet; Kingswood County wasn't exactly known as a purge hot spot. Still, there were snipers on the walls surrounding the property, Sansa knew, watching them with their night vision goggles, making sure they were safe.

“Jeyne is here,” she said. “Jeyne Poole. You remember her? She really shouldn't be.”

They were passing the Godswood.

Tywin looked at her. “The Pooles don't have a lot of money. This may be the safest place for her.”

Sansa stopped. “Locked into a bunker with the monster who raped and tortured her?”

“Ramsay isn't here,” Tywin said. “There was an incident a few years back. We don't mention it, but he's blacklisted from all New Conquerors fundraisers.”

The tip of his cigarette was glowing in the dark. _He's nervous, too_ , Sansa realized. _Not about Roose or Ramsay or Jeyne Poole; about something else._ She knew better than to ask him about it.

They were walking in silence.

“I saw Cersei earlier,” Sansa finally said. It was never a good idea to speak to Tywin about his children, much less on Purge Night, but she couldn’t help it. “I think she may try to kill Robert. Or someone else- I- I don’t know. She said something-”

“Kill Robert.” Tywin scoffed. “I suppose that's her right as a citizen of Westeros if she can pull it off.”

Sansa was biting her lip. “She can’t, is what you're saying. I don't know. Don’t you think we should warn him?”

“It would take careful planning.” Tywin flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. “She'd need people to back her. Trust me. If my daughter had that kind of support inside the Party, I’d know about it.” They had returned to the tall black wall of the Dreadfort. “There's something I need to take care of,” he told her. “Go back inside. I'll be right there.”

Sansa knocked on the door before taking one last look over her shoulder. Tywin had walked towards the wall surrounding the Dreadfort, but he was turned away from her, so she couldn't tell what he was doing. Light started spilling through the growing crack in the wall as the door opened, and she slipped back inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Servants were preparing the Small Hall for dinner. There was, Sansa thought, a faint smell of blood in the air, but perhaps, she was imagining things. Rows of tables lined the way to the dais, where the High Septon would stand to give his sermon before the food would be served to the lower ranks of the Party. Of course the _real_ dinner, the one that mattered, the one she dreaded, was taking place in Lord Roose’s private chambers.

She was about to hurry back to the Great Hall when she spotted Tyrion sitting by himself in another makeshift bar in an alcove, sipping red wine, his eyes glued to a screen above the bartender’s head.

Almost instinctively, Sansa looked up. It was one of the many live broadcasts to make sure none of the people hiding in their homes missed out on any of the gory details of what went on outside their sheltered walls.This one was from some kind of arena that reminded Sansa of a Valyrian circus where the freeholders had once fed their slaves to their dragons, but the colors on the screen were tinged to resemble an old Northern horror movie: washed out white, gray, and a dark red that looked almost black. The spectacle had drawn a crowd; all the seats were filled and more people were crammed into the front rows.

She noticed Ramsay, standing underneath a tall tree right in the middle of the arena, shouting inaudible orders at his men. In a way, seeing the Bolton bastard out there was reassuring – at least it was true he wasn't at the Dreadfort. The camera turned to show his victim, a man perhaps in his late forties, stripped half naked. He was bleeding from his forehead, his left eye swollen shut. Sansa had seen him before, somewhere, but she couldn’t remember where. The look of disbelief on his face turned her stomach into an icy lump. She lowered her eyes, suddenly ashamed at the relief she had felt just moments earlier. “Turn that off,” she told the bartender.

“You _do_ know that turning off the television won’t actually _stop_ Ramsay, right?” Tyrion said without lifting his eyes off the black screen. But when he turned around, he was smiling. “Lady Sansa. I see you’ve dressed in Lannister colors for the occasion.”

It was only then that Sansa realized she was still wearing Tywin’s coat. She shucked it off and sat down next to Tyrion. “Tell me. What would your father be doing if he wasn’t here?”

For a moment, Tyrion seemed puzzled by her question.

“He asked me earlier what he’d be doing if he wasn’t here,” Sansa explained. “So, tell me, what _would_ he be doing?”

Tyrion chuckled. “That’s easy,” he said. “The same thing as everyone else in this building. Commit securities fraud on a scale unknown to gods and men.”

“The stock market is closed,” Sansa pointed out.

“Not in Essos or Yi-Ti.” Tyrion shrugged. “They can’t suspend global trade just because of some barbaric Westerosi holiday. Besides, you don’t need an open market for half of what these people come up with. So you put the worst offenders in one place, collect their phones, give them some booze, and put on a show to keep them occupied. It won’t stop them of course, least of all Father, but it makes it more difficult to cause any serious damage.”

 _Is that what Tywin is doing out there?_ Sansa thought. _Making more money?_ It was possible. Of course, Tywin didn’t _need_ any more money, but she knew what Tyrion would say. _Think of it as a competition. A kind of game that they play._ Some of their unsavory deals were no doubt done in person, inside the Dreadfort, but most required some connection or other to the outside world. “I see,” she said. “Attendance at this fundraiser isn't exactly optional.”

Tyrion finished his wine and motioned for the bartender to bring him another. “Would I be here if it was?”

“They could just outlaw financial crime on Purge Night, you know,” Sansa said.

“Yes, but what would be the fun in that? Here.” Tyrion pulled out a lighter from the inside pocket of his doublet. It was only when Sansa looked more closely that she realised it was lined with rows of tiny buttons. _A transmitter_. “These functions get so boring,” Tyrion said, “and I don't have enough criminal energy to come up with my own plans, so I try to figure out what the others are up to.”

Sansa stared at the device. “I don’t think you’re supposed to have that,” she said. “What if someone catches you with it?”

Tyrion shrugged. “They’d take it away and maybe give me a slap on the wrist for violating Party rules. These are all short-range, not much you can do with them. Besides, _everybody_ has one. I bet _you_ have one on you, too.” Before she could protest, he grabbed Sansa’s purse and started rummaging through it. “Father wouldn’t let you roam around the Dreadfort without a way to _summon_ you.” He pulled out a slim silver pen and clicked it. It made a loud crackling noise. Tyrion’s eyes lit up. “I knew it! Let’s see if we can find Father’s frequency. It’s blocked on my device, but he may have left the channel open for you.”

Sansa stared at the pen. She didn't remember taking it. _Of course not._ She eyed the bartender, half expecting him to report them for using an illegal communications device, but the man was tactfully ignoring them. _He must be used to this._ Perhaps Tyrion was right; perhaps this _was_ normal. Perhaps it really was no big deal that Tywin had put something in her purse without telling her... “Give that back.”

Tyrion ignored her, holding the pen to her ear instead. Someone was speaking in low whispers in what sounded like a dialect of Valyrian. “ _Not_ my father,” he observed, as if Sansa wasn’t able to figure that out herself.

The next channel was scrambled. Then the static sound stopped and they heard a man speaking in the Common Tongue. None of what he said made any sense though; it was just a series of words, one strung after the other, with no logical connection.

“Boring.” Tyrion changed frequency again before handing her the pen.

There was someone counting backwards, then a pause and a faint voice. “Who’s there?” _Theon._ Sansa almost dropped the pen. _Does he know we’re listening?_ “It’s me,” a second familiar voice said. “What is it. Tell me.” _Jeyne._

“We’ll be fine,” Theon said. “No thanks to you.” Sansa pictured his white hair, the grey tone of his skin, his dull, empty eyes.

“No thanks to you, either,” Jeyne said. “You’re useless, you know that.”

There was something about the way they spoke to each other, the clinical indifference with which each insult was delivered, that made Sansa feel sick to her stomach. Jeyne and Theon had been in love once... _This is who they are now._ She quickly handed the pen back to Tyrion. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point. The New Conqueror’s no cell phone policy is as useless as nipples on a breastplate. People talk on Purge Night. People plot. But I don't need to listen to _this_.”

Tyrion raised one eyebrow, but he turned the pen off and put it back in Sansa’s purse. “You really don’t like our Blessed Night of the Stranger.”

Sansa scoffed. “Do _you_?” It was only when she said the words that she realized she was asking an honest question, not a rhetorical one.

Tyrion did not respond immediately. “I don’t like the killings,” he finally said. “But you have to understand the dynamics of Purge Night if you want to play the game.”

“Ah,” Sansa said. “Of course. Power.”

Tyrion leaned over. “Not just power. It’s quite fascinating when you think of it. Imagine you have a friend, maybe a good friend, maybe someone you only know fleetingly, but imagine you killed someone together. Maybe you planned it. Maybe you didn't. Perhaps you didn’t kill one person but wiped out a whole village. Or a dynasty.” He paused. “But what happens after it's done?”

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t _care_.” That was the truth.

“Maybe it’s been thirty years,” Tyrion continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “You are colleagues now. You see each other in the office every day. You pretend nothing ever happened. You're working on an audit together. You talk numbers. But all the time, you _know_. You've seen their darkest side. You know what they're capable of. They got away with it, and so did _you_.”

“Yes,” Sansa said. There was a kind of reverence in Tyrion’s voice that made her deeply uncomfortable. _He’s drunk_ , she told herself, but that wasn’t it. This was his world as much as it was Tywin’s.

If Tyrion noticed her discomfort, he did not show it. “Either you crack,” he said, “or you become invincible. Killing together makes and breaks a bond. That's the truth. Now imagine a circle of people, all in on the same dark secret.”

 _The bloody inner circle_ , Sansa thought. _Their bond holds all of this together._ “They’ve asked me to join their dinner,” she said quietly. “Lord Roose did. I don’t want to go.”

Tyrion was studying her. It took Sansa a moment to figure out what that look in his eyes was. _Envy. Envy that I’ve been invited, and he hasn’t._ She didn't blame him. All his life, he’d tried to impress his father and earn himself a spot at the table. And here she was, taking what was his, just like that. “I’d let you go instead if I could,” she added, instantly realizing that was the wrong thing to say. The last thing Tyrion Lannister wanted was pity.

They sat in silence, Tyrion sipping his wine, and Sansa staring at the black TV screen. Part of her wanted to ask the bartender to turn it back on, so she could reassure herself that whoever Ramsay had been torturing was dead now, that his suffering was over. But there would simply be a new person, she knew. Just as she wanted to get up and excuse herself, she heard footsteps.

“Tyrion. Sansa.” Tywin was standing outside the alcove, Ser Gregor towering behind him. “Come with me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “What is it _now_ , Father?”

“Just come with me.” The expression on Tywin’s face was calm as ever. A stranger wouldn't have noticed the difference. But Sansa did, and so did Tyrion. He sighed and got up. “Let’s go, Sansa. Father has _serious_ business to discuss with us.”

They hurried down the long, deserted hallway. Everybody had gone to watch the pre-dinner show. Faint laughter came from the Great Hall, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Sansa thought Tywin would lead them in there and force her to watch whatever it was Roose Bolton was doing to entertain his guests. But he stopped halfway and turned around. “Joffrey is watching the show,” he told his son, “go get him and follow us in ten minutes. I believe you know where you’ll find us.”

The mocking half smile on Tyrion’s face had died. He stopped dead in his tracks, mouth half open, his face losing all color fast. “Is this some kind of sick joke, Father?”

See Gregor stood apart from them, watching them, dark spots on his boots. It was at that moment Sansa realized something was very wrong.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Tywin’s eyes were fixed on Tyrion, his head slightly tilted to the side, as if he were asking a genuine question rather than a rhetorical one - the calm before the storm.

“N-no.” Tyrion’s voice was unnaturally shaky. “No, you don’t. But-”

“Don’t argue with me,” Tywin said curtly. “Just do as you’re told this once.” The harshness had left his eyes as he held out his arm. “Come, Sansa.”

Her legs felt like pudding; she had to hold on to his arm to steady herself. Yet somehow, miraculously, she kept putting one foot in front of the other.

The Mountain took a torch off the wall walked ahead, leading them down narrow, winding stairs. The stone beneath her stilettos felt slippery, but the only source of light was the flickering torch in Ser Gregor’s hand. She tried counting the number of flights to get a sense of how deep below the ground they were, but every few dozen, she lost track. All she could tell was that the stairs were getting narrower and steeper the deeper they went.

Sansa stopped and turned around. “I’m not going any further unless you tell me what we’re doing down there and why.”

Tywin looked at her with that same menacing curiosity in his eyes she had come to fear. “Do you think I’d ever allow any harm to come to you?”

“No, of course you wouldn’t.” _Absolute loyalty and absolute trust_. Those were the things Tywin demanded of his family.

Her answer had taken half a heartbeat too long by the look on his face. But his voice was completely calm when he said, “We’re leaving the Dreadfort. Sandor will pick us up.”

Sansa’s heart started pounding, a thousand thoughts racing through her head; the things Arya had said to her, the strange look on Jaqen’s face when she’d mentioned where she’d spend the night. “It’s the Faceless Men, isn’t it? They’re going to attack us.”

Tywin was behind her, gently but firmly pushing her forward. “They could for all I care,” he said. “But, no. Someone shorted Lannister Enterprise shares, right before the beginning of the Purge.”

Sansa tried to catch a glimpse of his face, but Ser Gregor was too far ahead, and Tywin’s head had been swallowed by the darkness behind them.

“It got flagged, of course,” he continued. “I didn't give it much thought at first. It's not uncommon for people to bet a little money on companies to get hit on Purge Night. I figured maybe someone would try to blow up one of the factories, so I added some security. But the amount was substantial enough that I had it traced. They went through three dozen shell companies. Part of it was Baelish. But the rest- _most_ of it-” He broke off.

They’d finally reached the bottom of the stairs. Water was running down the bare stone walls that lined the tunnel ahead of them. This wasn’t a part of the Dreadfort guests were meant to visit.

Tywin’s grip around her arm tightened. For the first time, Sansa realized he was _angry_ above all else. _No, not angry. Furious_. She’d never seen him like this before.

“The rest belongs to Bolton himself,” he said. “I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s confirmed. Our host placed a rather substantial bet that when the markets open tomorrow, Lannister stock will take a nosedive. There are only so many ways he can make that happen. I trust you understand why we can’t stay.”

Sansa stared at him, trying to come up with a response, tell him that what he was implying was _ridiculous_ , that not even Roose Bolton would dare to murder his own _guests_. But her throat felt so dry she couldn’t speak. _Kill the King_.

“He will pay for his betrayal, my lord,” Gregor Clegane’s voice cut through the silence. It was the first time he spoke. “Say the word, and I will deal with him tonight.”

Sansa glanced at the Mountain. Clearly, he’d already dealt with _somebody_. But inside these walls, there was little he could do to protect them against their host, much less kill a man in his own castle. Lord Roose on the other hand… _Kill the King_. She shuddered. “When Cersei heard them say kill the King,” she said softly, “I don’t think they meant Robert.” A part of her was hoping Tywin would dismiss her concerns, tell her to stop being so paranoid.

But Tywin just nodded. “It’s crossed my mind, yes.” He shrugged. “I asked Cersei about it. She swore it was only sellswords singing an old song from the Rebellion. It may mean nothing, but it makes no difference now. We’re leaving.” 


End file.
